Learned Your Name
by in48frames
Summary: On a trip to Las Vegas, Oliver learns something significant about Felicity's past.


**A/N:**_ I've been sitting on this for a few weeks, because it means a lot to me. It was written before *any* of the recent spoilers, which may or may not be obvious. The song is Learned Your Name by Frightened Rabbit and you can find it on YouTube._

* * *

_I wish I had, I wish I had learned your name  
But I couldn't read, I couldn't speak; nobody taught me_

"I have to do this myself," Felicity had said that morning before leaving the hotel. They'd only arrived in Vegas the afternoon before, but she said she wanted to get the tough stuff—the family stuff—out of the way as soon as possible.

There's a case, of course—when is there not a case? But Digg and Oliver told her to take her time, it wasn't a problem. They would split up and do their own thing and the three of them would meet up again when Felicity's business was done.

_This is wrong_, Oliver thinks to himself as he tracks her away from the hotel. _She deserves her privacy_. She does. But it feels like five minutes ago she was in Slade's clutches with a blade to her throat, and Oliver isn't quite ready to let her go off on her own in a strange city. _It's not strange to her_, the voice whispers. That much is obvious in the set of her shoulders as she hails a cab, the confidence with which she offers directions. She knows this place; she knows a lot of things Oliver doesn't.

He follows the cab at a distance, behind the wheel of a nondescript rental car. As they turn off the main drag, trace the twists and turns of back roads, he assumes they're on their way to see Felicity's mom, wherever she might be. But instead, the cab stops at the entrance to a cemetery, Felicity climbing out and paying her fare. Oliver continues on, circling the block, before parking just around the corner.

He sits in the car for a moment, turning it over in his mind, then makes his way slowly, reluctantly past the gate. _This is too much_, he thinks as he approaches from behind and ducks behind a large tree. _This is crossing the line_. He thinks it, but stays, watching as she stops in front of a gravestone and lowers herself to the ground, spreading her long skirt out around her and leaning on one hand.

After a moment, the briefest moment—Oliver can only assume he's losing his touch—she cocks her head, then turns and scans behind her. Jumping behind the tree would only embarrass himself further, so he stays where he is and she spots him, raising a hand in the air and freezing briefly before waving him over.

He lets his shoulders fall and drops his head, watching his feet as he walks forward. At her side he kicks gently at the grass, feeling for all the world like a little boy caught misbehaving.

"Sorry."

She shields her eyes against the sun, looking up at him, then shifts to the side, rearranging her skirt and patting the grass beside her. "Join me."

He does, sitting down and resting his arms on his raised knees as he takes in the details of the gravestone.

_Aaron Smoak  
17 November 1983 – 5 January 2000  
Forever in our hearts_

Unwilling to ask, to even look a question at her after invading her moment, he only waits.

"Oliver," she says softly, "I'd like to introduce you to my brother, Aaron."

He looks then, running his eyes over her face and trying to assess her emotional state. Her eyes are on the stone, tracing the words from top to bottom and back again. She glances at him, then looks down, watching as her fingers drive into the grass, gripping it in her fist.

"He was sixteen," she says. "I was twelve. He was skateboarding home after dark, and a car… The driver wasn't drunk, he didn't fall asleep, it was just a dumb, stupid accident." She sighs, tearing out a clump of grass and raising her hand to sprinkle it over her skirt before digging her fingers back in. "My mom was angry when my dad left, but after my brother died… sometimes it felt like I was keeping her there by sheer force of will. I hadn't grown up yet… after that day… well, my childhood was over." Another quick glance, over and then away. "Anyway, I don't talk about it much. People look at you different. They aren't expecting the answer to 'Do you have any siblings?' to be, 'Yeah, but he's dead.' It's easier to stay quiet."

He watches as she tears out more grass, says, "Felicity," but she doesn't look up. Reaching out one arm, he wraps it around her shoulders and draws her gently into his side. She comes easily, her hand falling to rest on his stomach, but when he says, "You deserved better," she stiffens, and he's suddenly deeply afraid. "You know that. Right?"

In reply, she draws away, sitting up straight and pressing her fingers to her lips for a long moment. She transfers the kiss to the stone and then stands, brushing the grass off her skirt and waiting for Oliver. His teeth come together hard, nerves acid in his stomach, and it's all he can do to settle for standing up and taking her hand in his.

He holds it as they walk to the car, releasing her long enough to get in and put on his seat belt and then wrapping his hand around hers again. She puts her other hand on top of his and sighs, staring out the windshield. After a moment, and without much relish, she directs him on the drive to her mother's house.

The woman who opens the door has none of Felicity's usual sparkle or zest for life. Her hair, dyed dark, hangs limp around her face and she wears a ratty terrycloth robe untied over a tank top and tight skirt. _Cocktail waitress_, Oliver remembers.

She stares blankly at them for a moment, before something seems to click behind her eyes and she holds out her arms, saying, "Felicity."

"Hi, Mom," Felicity says back, hugging her gingerly. When she steps back, she sweeps a hand to the side and says, "This is my friend, Oliver."

"Hello, Oliver," the woman says, offering her hand. She doesn't return his grip, simply leaving her hand in his and then dropping it. "I'm Bobbie. Please come in."

She leads them through the dark and cluttered house, depositing them in the living room and murmuring, "I'll just put the kettle on," before wandering into the kitchen.

Felicity sits on the edge of the sofa and seems to shrink into herself, a small sad ghost of the woman he knows. He sits down next to her without a word, putting his hand on her back and rubbing small circles with his fingertips. She looks up gratefully, apologetically, and Oliver would like to scoop her up and take her far away from here. Is it worth it, family, if it does _this_ to the brightest light he knows?

She must think so, to be here, and so he will be kind and he will be polite and then, _then_ he will take her far away from here.

Her mother returns, setting a tea tray on the coffee table, and Oliver drops his hand to his lap. The conversation, when it comes, is slow, stumbling over questions and answers, a halting push and pull. They stay for just over an hour and by the time they leave Felicity is looking clear wrung out. He doesn't say anything as he puts the car into drive, pulls out onto the road, but after five minutes he turns into a parking lot and shuts off the car.

Felicity looks out the window curiously, and when Oliver doesn't get out she turns to him. "What—?"

"I just," he says, leaning forward and peering out the windshield at nothing in particular. "I think we need a minute to decompress."

She nods, leaning back against the headrest, and Oliver needs to do something. _Something._ He doesn't have words, not the right words, and there's only one other way he knows to communicate.

Finally he turns, reaching across for her hand again, but this time, he tugs, drawing her across the centre console.

"Oliver, what—" she says, but moves with him, pulling her knees up under her on the seat and letting him put his hands on her waist to lift her onto his lap.

"Just let me—" he says, settling her sideways on his lap and wrapping his arms around her. He presses his forehead to the side of her head and she rests her hands on his forearm where it crosses her belly.

"Oliver," she says again, her soft voice trying and failing to hold a note of reproach.

"I don't know what to say," he sighs. "But I know that you deserve every good thing—" She tenses just slightly and he spreads his fingers across the span of her waist, the heat of her skin reassuring through the fabric of her top. "—and if I could give it to you, I would. I wish I could," he finishes quietly.

She brushes her palm over the muscle of his forearm and he gets the distinct impression she's trying to comfort him instead of the other way around. "You've given me plenty, Oliver."

"It's not enough," he says, barely forming the words, and it's that, _that_ out of everything that has happened today, that makes her cry. He curses himself. "Damn it, Felicity, I'm sorry."

"No, no," she says, voice a bit thick, waving one hand through the air. "Just… thank you."

He tightens his arms around her, his nose brushing the curve of her ear, and it would be so easy to kiss her now. He would hardly have to move, just ease forward and kiss the lobe of her ear, dip his head and press his mouth to the slope of her neck. He closes his eyes, breathes her in, knowing this is a special circumstance and he might not ever get her this close again. Knowing that the only way to keep her this close would be to offer her something less than she deserves.

He won't do that, couldn't live with himself if he did that. All that he's learned about her today just reinforces the fact that she deserves the world and she deserves someone who can offer her that. Not his world, the underbelly and the dark corners, but the world as she sees it, bright and colourful.

He believes in his heart that she'll find that, and it certainly won't be with him. The thought falls to the pit of his stomach and sours there, but he knows it's right.

He takes one last breath, one last mental snapshot, then lets his arms fall to his sides. She blinks, lifts her head, and shivers once before turning to climb back over the console. _Stop her_, the voice says. _Don't let her go._

He does.

_Met you when you were full of lemonade  
You strode boldly in bold clothes, covered the fear_

He isn't going to change his mind.

When the time comes, she'll change it for him.

_Spent four years inside you, day upon day  
You pushed colors and borders, lit by my gaze_

Life goes on as before. Felicity watches him a bit warily for the first few days but it seems his response—that is, no response at all—satisfies her, and she relaxes. If Oliver's protective instinct is stronger than ever, well, he's gotten good at rationalizing that away. She can handle herself, she is good at what she does, she is _really scary_ pissed off.

So, work threats: fine. Manageable, at least. Then she starts dating.

Also fine. Totally fine. Totally and completely and entirely fine. Oliver is fine with it. It's fine! It's just that, you know, protective instinct, and maybe he's not as good at rationalizing away these threats, because when her date is twenty minutes late to pick her up after work, Oliver offers to let him in at the door while Felicity finishes up.

But he doesn't exactly let the guy in. More like, greets him menacingly at the door and chases him off with threats to his manhood. Something like that.

When he goes back upstairs, he tells Felicity no one was there and she holds up her phone.

"Yeah, I got a text. Shall I read it to you?"

Oliver freezes; her tone is steady but she's holding herself straight and tall, her eyes flashing.

She reads it. "_So sorry. Emergency across town. Rain check?_ Funny thing is," she says, "I pinged his phone. I wonder why he would text me about an emergency across town while standing right downstairs." She cocks her head as she crosses the room toward him, a comical expression of confusion on her face. "Hmm? What do you think, Oliver? Any ideas?"

He looks down, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and lifts one shoulder. "He wasn't right for you."

Her breathing is suddenly very audible, her voice going up an octave and at least three notches in volume. "How would you know that?!"

"He was twenty minutes late—"

"God forbid!" she says loudly, throwing her hands up in the air. "Heaven knows Oliver Queen would never be late for a date, right?"

"It's not about me—"

"Really? Then to what scale, exactly, are you holding him?"

He sighs, rubbing one hand over his forehead. "You deserve—"

She scoffs. "Please. Don't start that again."

"It's true," he says stubbornly.

"What you don't seem to get, Oliver," she says, stepping forward again and smacking the back of her hand against his shoulder, "is that it _doesn't matter_. It's not up to you!"

"No, of course not."

"But?" She looks up at him expectantly.

"But I _know_…" He trails off, thinking, _I know how I would treat you. I know what treatment you deserve._

She stares up at him, her forehead crumpling as her eyes scan his. The anger seeps out of her expression, replaced by resigned sadness. "You aren't involved. That's your choice."

"It's not a choice," he says quietly, avoiding her eyes and shaking his head.

She shuts her eyes and turns away, crossing the room back to her purse and rummaging in it. Her eyes are still closed and after a moment she stops moving at all, so Oliver isn't sure she's doing anything but stalling. "You do have a choice, though, Oliver," she says with her back to him, raising her head and looking out the window.

He doesn't respond, and after a minute she turns back around, a firm set to her chin as she meets his eyes.

Holding up one hand flat, palm facing the ceiling, she says, "You can be right," and she holds up her other hand, "or you can make me happy." Then she shrugs, picking up her purse and starting toward the door.

"I don't understand," he says, his voice suddenly overloud, echoing in the empty room, and she stops.

Very slowly, she turns back, eyes him, and holds her first hand up again. "You can be right," she says again, more deliberately, "and stand there all strong and manly, sticking to your guns and making both of us miserable, or," she holds up her other hand, "you can pay attention, for once in your life, to what I actually _want_, and do something that might actually make my life _better_."

His chest tightens, squeezing his breath out in a rush, and he brings a hand up to cover his eyes, pressing his fingertips into his temples. "Like be nice to your dates," he says reluctantly.

"No," she says, very close, and he peeks through his fingers to see her turning her face up to him again. "Is that what you think I want?" she asks gently. "Really?"

His heart starts to race and he swallows hard, hope and dismay warring inside his chest. Tentatively, he shakes his head, and she steps forward, sliding her hands over the fabric of his shirt before they come to rest at his waist. She tilts her head further and he dips his, meeting her halfway as she pushes up on her toes.

He kisses her so gently and she lets him, offering only the equal to what she takes, a cautious exploration of how they join together.

When he pulls back, his face is laid bare, every emotion written as though in ink, and he licks his lips. "What you want…"

"Is this," she says, nodding. "So the choice—"

"There is no choice," he says immediately, dipping his head again and kissing her with new assurance. His hands slip around to the small of her back, drawing her closer as her hands land on his forearms and follow them up before pressing on his shoulders. He bends and she twines her arms around behind his head, while he secures his at her waist.

Then he pulls away, turning his face into her neck for a moment before setting her back a few inches with his hands on her waist. He straightens and looks into her eyes.

"I don't know if I'm good enough for you," he says, and she squints. "_But_," he emphasizes, "I do want you to be happy. I will…"

"Try?" she suggests.

He nods. "Try. If I screw up, though," and it's not a joke; the stricken look on his face makes that clear enough, "will you forgive me?"

She rubs her hands over his shoulders, tipping her head and smiling up at him. "One step at a time, okay?"

He nods again, but the war in his chest persists and it must show on his face; Felicity sweeps her hands up the sides of his neck, cupping his jaw.

"You've decided," she says. "Now stop thinking about it."

"You're right," he says—

—but won't stop thinking about it, not that night. Although he takes her back to his home, pours her a glass of wine, he won't undress her; not that night. Instead, he holds her in his arms, getting used to the solid truth of her against him. When he wakes to her face, so peaceful in sleep, the sun catching on every loose hair and spinning it gold, he smiles—finally. She smiles in turn, even asleep, and when he traces the lines of her face, following the threads of her hair, she blinks open her eyes and smiles wider.

"I dreamt about you," she says.

"Really?"

"Well," she yawns, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth and then patting it on his cheek, "you and my brother. He likes you."

He's not going to cry—he isn't a crier—but he has to look up at the wall above the bed, pressing his lips together hard, before he can look back into her eyes. "I'm glad."

"Is that enough?" she says, and he lowers his brows, drawing them together, before she elaborates. "To stop you worrying. It's kind of a sign, right?"

"It is," he says, smiling, considering her face as he brushes his thumb over the curve of her cheek. "Can't promise I won't worry—it's kind of my thing. But…" He turns the idea over in his head, over and over, trying to decide if he can really say it. If he's sure enough to promise. "I can't promise anything," he settles for, finally. "I wish I could. But I need you to know that I'm going to try—not just to be with you, but to fight the urge to push you away. I know it's going to happen—the day will come when I will want to push you away to keep you safe. But…"

"But you can be right," she murmurs.

He nods. "Or I can make you happy. I'm going to try."

"You're stubborn," she says fondly, patting his cheek again. "It means a lot to me that you'd try."

"Anything for you," and he kisses her again, treasuring the time they have.

_Oh, the photograph, the last gasp on the steps at the end  
Just a tiny glance; all I ask amidst all this tension_

Late, very late, on the night of their wedding, Felicity returns to the banquet hall. Everyone has left, the hall being emptied out by staff, and Felicity has changed into jeans and a tee. She just needs to find the earring she lost at some point in the evening, probably on the dance floor—an heirloom, her something old, and she won't be able to sleep tonight if she doesn't find it.

Stepping inside the door, she sweeps her gaze across the room, looking for someone managerial to ask for help. What she sees first, though, is Thea at the far end of the hall. Instantly recognizable in her maid of honor dress, she's studying the photo display they set up of family and friends.

Despite her sore feet and nearly delirious exhaustion, Felicity lopes down the length of the hall, stepping up beside Thea and slipping her fingers into Thea's palm.

"Hey, lady," she says quietly, and Thea looks up, smiling, long-dried trails of tears on her cheeks.

Reaching out with her free hand, Thea brushes her fingers across the last photo that Felicity, Aaron, and their mom took together. "You were about the same age when you lost him."

Felicity nods, clasping Thea's hand tighter. "I know. I'm sorry… I didn't tell you about him sooner."

Thea sighs, leaning into Felicity's side and resting her cheek on Felicity's shoulder. "We didn't really know each other. I'm just glad to know you now." Her hand flexes in Felicity's and she swallows hard, then says softly, "I think we were meant to be sisters."

If Felicity thought she was all cried out, she's proven wrong as her eyes fill again. She doesn't bother to fight them—the point is more than moot by now—but just lets them slip out, a single sob rocking her torso. She sniffs and wraps her arm around Thea, bringing their heads together and saying, "You're a blessing, Thea Queen."

"Right back atcha, Mrs. Smoak," Thea replies. "How did my brother let that pass, anyway?"

"He knows better than to argue with my autonomy."

"Mmhmm," Thea says doubtfully. "I'm just picturing… mail coming to the house marked 'Mr. Smoak.' Telemarketers asking for Oliver Smoak." She starts giggling. "Think he'll still be smart enough then?"

"Okay," Felicity laughs. "That might not go over well."

When she's finally back in bed with Oliver, both earrings safely stowed away, she tells him about their conversation and cries all over again.

Oliver listens quietly, stroking her hair as the tears run down her face, and then says wonderingly, "I'm so lucky."

Felicity laughs wryly. "We'll see."

He just smiles, looking at her like he could never get enough of the sight, and she takes a breath.

"You never looked at me like I was broken."

His face transforms instantly, from something close to awe to absolute bewilderment. "You aren't broken," he says firmly, then holds up a finger when she opens her mouth to respond. "Second, how could _I_, Oliver Queen, vigilante, ever look at anyone else as broken?" She opens her mouth again and he puts his finger to her lips. "Third, if you were broken, wouldn't that make you just perfect for me?" She snaps her mouth shut, squinting, and he nods. "Exactly. But broken or not, you are perfect for me. And I love you. And we're married."

She snuffles a laugh through her nose, mumbles under his finger, "No kidding," and then bares her teeth and snaps at him.

"Hey!" He pulls his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, saying into the kiss, "You're feral."

"And you're stuck with me." She nips at his lip, gentle now, and caresses it with her tongue. "Regretting that choice?"

"Never."

_You've demolished my heart, whichever room it lived in  
Oh, I wish I had, I wish I had, I wish I had learned your name_


End file.
